


a series of small and insignificant things

by NotAFicWriter



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-25 06:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12030204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAFicWriter/pseuds/NotAFicWriter
Summary: A collection of drabbles, mostly unprompted, with little cohesiveness, and far too much feelings for anyone's tastes.





	1. like blood welling up at the mouth of a cut

**Author's Note:**

> i did not plan to post this, but i had a goddamn life-affirming rattlesnake ordeal a few hours ago, and am still kinda filled with adrenaline, so I guess i'm a fic writer now. i come up with a lot of headcanons for this show, typically for vex and percy, and usually I do no more than bother others with them on tumblr, but every now and then, I write a genuine drabble, or small fic, to expand on the concept, and figured i should probably find a place to contain them while I work on more serious projects, before they get any ideas and become any longer than they need to be. most of it is self-indulgent, fairly plotless, and tends to go nowhere, but at least I'm getting it through the door before the campaign ends. enjoy.

It’s not that Vex enjoys secrets, while she does cherish the little mysteries they keep between them just as much as he does, but Percy is under no illusion that he knows everything about her.

You see, there are many ways to be secretive: there are liars, like Scanlan, who mix the truth with three-parts lie, and only distribute the mixture in small, precise amounts, and even when they erupt, it is a form of convincing the other that they were in the wrong all along for not looking hard enough; there are ones like how Percy likes to think of himself—covert, enigmatic—not lying as often as they avoid looking the truth in the eye, who cultivate secrets like delicate vegetation that would not survive the light of day, and when the truth comes out, it comes all at once, like the opening of floodgates; and there are some that are like Vex, for whom the truth is both the goal in mind, and a deeply painful process. These are the people who can best spot lies and secrets in others, but from which honesty drains slowly and shamefully, like sickness from an infected wound.

She doesn’t tell him anything from the days before they met easily, not even years into their relationship. The closest she’d ever come was the night before the gates of Syngorn, and that did not come without coaxing. At night, if he listens closely, he can hear her fidgeting with a confession trapped in her throat, and if he lies still enough, she might come close and whisper it to him in fractions. It’s never kind truths, always the sort that claw the throat on the way up, and hurt to hear, but he stays still, and lets her speak uninterrupted.

She starts with the things that hurt less and moves deeper in. She tells him, in euphemisms and trailing off sentences, about the nights she spent in men’s beds, while her and Vax were young and on the road. “Not for coin,” she says, “never for coin, exactly. But sometimes for an extra night in an inn, or another loaf of bread, or a pair of boots. Sometimes just for a roof; a night sleeping in someone else’s bed, is a night you have a bed to sleep in.” This isn’t easy to say, but it doesn’t hurt as much either. It does not stay that way.

Her mother’s name was Elaina. If she had a last name, it was lost to time. Vex learned how to hunt dragons in her memory. “In her memory,” she says, “or for protection, or to avenge her, or both, or neither. Maybe I just needed an excuse to start.” She doesn't say much about her mother, and Percy can’t decide if it’s due to grief, or lack of memory.

Every now and then, he’ll wake up in the middle of the night to find her already awake, every muscle in her body tense. Gradually, he learns to recognize the aftermath of nightmares from before they met, the same way he learned to recognize the times she dreams about Saundor. She tells him about them, but never all at once. She contradicts herself. One night, she may say one thing, and the next, correct it. One night, the bear was dead when she found it, but a few days later, she’ll speak about it as though it’s still out there, entrails hanging out of its opened stomach.

Sometimes, a few lies just have to exist, just for now, just until it gets easier, and he doesn’t begrudge her for it. She’ll tell him that both throats were slit before either poacher could touch her, and then they’ll both pretend she isn’t shaking. They act, when he dries her face, as though there were no tears to begin with. Sometimes, she won’t speak unless held close, her face hidden in his shoulder, where she can’t see or be seen. On other nights, she’ll confess her history like a sinner at a temple, curled as far from him as she could while remaining in the same bed, and stares at him like a cornered, wounded animal when he reaches for her.

Most days, the things she tells him don’t reach an end. Percy had demons to shoot, at least, no matter how brutal they were-- Vex has a handful of loose ends, and there are no bookends to her stories, there are no vampires to defeat, no lessons to learn. There is only moving forward, and hoping that nothing is following your trail.

There are nights when Percy feels the urge to make lists again, to write the names of every faceless man who would take advantage, of every judgmental elf, on the barrels of a revolver. There are nights he thinks, with his arms around her, that maybe if he held her close enough, hid her well enough, death wouldn’t be able to find her anymore. Most of the time, though, he wants nothing more than to be able to convince her that none of it was her fault. Vex never says that it is, but there is no other word for the darkness in her eyes, the way she won’t look directly at him, but guilt. It is a unique torment to watch the person you love hurt themselves, and be unable to help them. He tells her, “My heart, there is nothing that you’ve done that needs to be forgiven,” but nothing silences her faster than when he tries to put words to the things they’ve said in the safety of their bed.

The most he can do is lie still and wait until she’s finished opening old wounds, using the truth as a flagellant does a lash, and offer her a place in his arms with no judgement, and as much tenderness as one terrible man can give. Sometimes, it’s enough.

And, other days, like blood welling up at the mouth of a cut, the past spills into the present. One morning, at early winter, with the air cold and biting and the snow trodden brown, a handful of invaders come through the gates of Whitestone, looking to thin the number of living de Rolos once again. And Vex, who has faced devils and gods, the woman who death couldn’t catch after three attempts, looks, all at once, as shaken and trapped as a fox caught in a snare.


	2. strange thing i desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which draconic is a difficult language to translate, and the library is a perfect place to study new and exciting tongues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now for something completely different. based on some headcanons i indulged in about a week or so ago, about how percy and vex have terms of endearment for each other in different languages. very different tone, but i hope it's still to your liking. enjoy.

“I think I recognize that last word.”

Lying halfway on top of Percy, Vex had to admit, as much as she missed Tary, there is something to be said about having the house to themselves. To being able to lounge about in the library at early evening, books and clothes tossed to one side, to practicing Draconic over her husband’s throat, without fear of being interrupted. That, and taking lengthy baths together without being needled right after for hogging the bathroom for so long.

“Which one?”

Percy tried to replicate the sound, focusing on the vowels, but not quite reaching the correct consonants, frowning at his own mispronunciation. Vex said the word again, slowly, and he nodded. “You say that one fairly frequently. What does it mean?”

“It’s a term of endearment, darling, though it’s a little hard to translate.”

“I didn’t know that Draconic had terms of endearment.”

“Oh, there are lovely ones, if you know how to pronounce them right.”

She crooned, low in the throat, first with her lips closed, and then opening them in a quiet hiss. “My strength.” She brought her lips close to his neck, said the next word, a polysyllabic growl that made him shiver. “Beautiful.” Then she repeated the first one, but not before gently nipping the skin of his throat, soothing it with a kiss once she got the trembling sigh she was after, laving the small mark with her tongue. Of all of them, it sounded the most like a standard word, and it was one of Vex’s favorites. She studied old form Draconic with no small amount of spite, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t marvel at how such a sharp, biting language could soften with the right word choice and tone.

When she refrained from translating, Percy fidgeted under her, and asked again, “What does it mean?”

“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” She said, rolling off of him to lay beside instead of ontop, where she could stretch and look up at the room around them, their library, still full of room for advancement, its shelves half-full, with the little section of linguistics made significantly smaller with the two books, now resting on the end table near them. “Like I said, they’re tricky to translate. Dragons are vain by nature, the literal Draconic word for “beautiful” has the connotation of a threat. Being called rare, or uncommon, however, that's a compliment, since that means you're very desirable. The literal translation of the term of endearment “beautiful” would be more like, “strange thing I desire”.”

He snorted, “Charming.”

“Very. But it implies physical attractiveness, and it certainly sounds very pretty, doesn’t it, _beautiful_?” This time, she said the word directly into his ear, knowing exactly how much her husband liked to hear her tell him how pretty he was, how much it made him squirm and blush.

“How terrible the first one must be,” he said, trying to change the topic before she could play with him any further, “if you won’t even translate it.”

She laughed, and lifted up on an elbow to run her fingers through his hair. “It means, literally, “the pinnacle of my hoard,” Percival. The very finest thing that I own.”

It wasn’t like she expected him to flinch, but the leisurely smile building from one side to the next, as though painted across with a brushstroke, _that_ caught her a bit off guard. At her raised eyebrow, he pointed down with his chin towards the lovebites she’d left peppered across his torso, from throat to hips, the trails of nails a flushed pink on his chest. She could get a bit territorial, couldn’t she?

“Well, don’t you look so pleased with yourself,” Vex said, running a hand up his body, from where it had been resting, thumbing at his hipbone, up to the notch of his jugular and collarbone, and then back down his stomach, faintly tracing the claw marks she made not a half-hour before. She let a healing spell pool at her fingertips, soothing the worse of the scratches and bruises, leaning in to kiss a purplish mark she’d sucked into his throat, and watching it ease away.

“You could have left them, dear,” Percy said, a little breathless.

“I’m not nearly done with you for tonight, my husband, and I’d like to work with a clean canvas.”

Not yet, though. The mood was building, and unbuilding, flowing and ebbing away, but at the moment, lying against each other, just a bit cramped, on the sofa in their library, the very last dregs of sunlight dripping from the high window and painting Percy’s face and chest in a low, violet light, the mood was too gentle. They tugged at it occasionally, but it kept returning to a basking softness that could not be moved.

“It doesn't mean just that, you know,” she continued where she left off before, “”the pinnacle my my hoard.” It translates to that, but that’s not what it means. When I use it, what I want to say is, you are the best thing in my life. In the last few years, I went from having very little, to being a titled homeowner, but, of everything I live with now, you are by far my most treasured.”

And for a moment, there were no words, and there needn't be any. Percy just turned on his side as well, so that they were lying face-to-face, and touched his forehead to hers, their noses brushing together. Occasionally, he kissed her chastely, or nuzzled her face with his. But, for the most part, they lay still, eyes shut.

This was what being married was about, it had to be. Not a natural progression from one step of a relationship to the next, but lying next to your partner, so heavy with love for this strange and wonderful creature that you had difficulty placing it, that it spilled into other things, like a well overfilling with rain. Between the warmth of contact, his steady, grounding breaths, Vex felt waterlogged.

When Vex opened her eyes again, the remainder of the sunlight had dried up, and they were lying together in the newborn darkness, the air of the library growing chilled. She gave an involuntary shiver when Percy’s fingers began to trace a familiar pattern into the skin of her side, her stomach, but she relaxed into it soon enough. Though she could not speak Celestial, she’d seen him write it enough times to recognize the delicate, invisible lettering drawn on her, by the motions of his wrist.

His eyes remained shut as he wrote, a small, honest smile present on his lips. Vex reached up and touched her fingers to his chin, running her thumb against his stubble to get his attention. “What are you writing, Percy?”

“Love letters, my dear,” he said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Who for?”

Percy spoke through a yawn, “For my lady wife, when she gets here.”

“How will she read them, then? If I remember correctly, she doesn't speak Celestial.”

“When she arrives, I'll read them to her, but I won’t read a word until I see her.”

Vex ran her fingers up his chin until they cupped his jaw. “Open your eyes, then, my treasure.”

His eyes opened, first half-lidded, then mischievous. In a fit of playfulness, he wrapped his arms around her suddenly and rolled both of them over, so that she was on her back, him holding himself over her on his elbows. She had to brace her foot on the hardwood to prevent him knocking both of them off the narrow couch, letting out a surprised squeak, as he went about fawning over her.

Neither one of them could swallow their giggling, happy to be stupid and giddy in the safety of their own home, Percy, between laughter, kissing her cheek, her nose, her throat, before holding her face in both hands, looking over her face with an adoring expression she could only define as awestruck, and coming close to kiss her mouth, softly. It couldn’t be anything except soft, with how they kept interrupting it by smiling . When he pulled away, there was a faint flush trailing up to the tips of his ears, and his grin was crooked, as though knocked aside. “There you are, Lady de Rolo.”

“Here I am, Lord ‘Ahlia. Are you going to read me those letters, now?”

“Of course.” For a moment, he just leaned back, careful to not lean his weight too heavily on her, and brushed over her cheekbones with his thumbs, tracing the corners of her eyes, the look on his face impossibly sweet. Vex turned her head aside and kissed one hand.

Then, finally, he brought his lips to her ear, and spoke quietly, “Light of my life, you have conquered me completely.”

Vex closed her eyes, and tried to catalogue the moment: in the slight chill of the room, darkness falling over them-- safe and happy in their own private space, filled with a sense of easy intimacy. It was striking, even now, how easy it was to just be with this man. She could stand to stay like this for the rest of her life.

“Will you say it in Celestial?”

You didn’t need to understand Celestial to enjoy hearing it, especially when spoken in Percy’s clear, low voice. The words remained distinct, but musical and flowing into each other, just as much sentences as they were the ringing of churchbells, just as much the sound of the wind whining in the branches, the choir of birds at dawn, and, under it all, her husband’s voice, slightly hoarse-- of all her achievements, her most treasured.

“I love you,” she said, and, for the life of her, she couldn’t tell in what language.

Percy, understanding regardless, touched his forehead back to hers. “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the wait between this chapter and the next will probably be longer, since i had this one more or less half done for a few days before now, and i'm running out of ideas for the moment. most of the short fics i put here will probably be more like this one, but there will probably be at least a few like the first, since i can't live off of fluff alone. i'm always open to writing up others' headcanons, if i like them a lot, so feel free to send a few my way if you have any (though no guarantees) my tumblr is a woefully empty thing under the same name.


	3. some measure of nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which percy makes unwise facial hair decisions at poor times, vex is tired, their firstborn is a handful, and trinket is, as always, the only reasonable one in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of these days, i'll write something other than perc'ahlia fluff. one of these days i'll even write perc'ahlia fluff that isn't about them lying down together. for now, here's this, i hope you enjoy it. it was originally meant to be a piece of something bigger, but i couldn't figure out how to bridge these parts, and this portion kept getting longer, so i just invested myself fully in it. elaina is on loan from cinderfell's "this love is more than worth its weight in gold", which i would recommend, but you've probably already read it, because it's that good. this work is really her and laura bailey's fault, for making me think of quarter-elf babies so much lately. this is your responsibility, guys, not mine.

Far from the first time, Percy woke up to the sound of their daughter crying from the accompanying room, echoed by the low groan of a needy brown bear. Before he could sit up, Vex touched his shoulder and said, “I’ll go, darling, it’s my watch.”

He let his eyes drift shut again, though he knew better than to try and fool himself with attempting to fall back asleep. He knew well by now that there was no way that he’d be able to sleep until he saw for himself that nothing had happened, and that Vex returned to bed without problems. There was always a short stretch of time between Vex getting up, and her coming back with Elaina, where Percy can think of nothing else but that he’d get up to find them both gone, or worse. Straining his ear for noises, he held his breath, until he heard the soft sound of his wife’s voice, further down the hall, murmuring soothingly.

After a little bit, the door opened, and Trinket came inside first—nowadays he spent most nights sleeping beside Elaina’s crib—and laid heavily next to the bed, letting his head rest on the mattress, and followed closely Vex’ahlia. When she sat back on the bed, now heavier with the weight of a four-month-old in her arms, he turned himself over onto his back, to watch them. She’d shifted her robe off one side, one hand cupping the back of Elaina’s head as she nursed. Moving up up behind Vex on the bed, he brushed her hair aside, off of one side of her upper back, to kiss her cheek and rest his chin on her shoulder.

“Just hungry?”

“Just hungry, Percy. Everything’s fine.”

She leaned back against him, and he wrapped his arms around her midsection, rocking them back and forth gently. Vex ran her thumb over Elaina’s little patch of hair, dark and already beginning to curl, absentmindedly humming a vaguely familiar tune. Something in his chest trembled, still, like it was bound to shake itself loose. He asked, “And how are you, dearest?”

Laughing quietly, she said, “Well, right now, I’m tired, and my tits hurt, but I would say that I’m fairly happy with how things have turned out lately.”

“Are you sure? Summer’s ending soon, and I know it’s difficult for you once it gets dark, and—“

“ _Sshh._ Nothing is wrong, my darling. Just be here.”

He nestled closer, hiding his face in the shelter made where her shoulder met her neck, focusing on her scent, the vibrations of her humming, the rise and fall of her breathing. After a few minutes, he heard Vex speak under her breath, jostling as she repositioned Elaina further up to pull her robe tighter around herself, moving her within Percy’s reach. He leaned forward to kiss the top of her head, speaking quietly, “Hello, little princess. Are you finished harassing your mother?”

“Not quite yet,” Vex answered, in place of their daughter, reaching for the towel they kept folded by the bed for such occasions.

“Dear, let me, you should go back to sleep,” he said, and, shaking her head, she relented, letting him have both towel and baby.

Covering one shoulder with the towel, he rested Elaina’s head over it, cradling her to his chest, getting up off the bed, and crossing across the room slowly, patting her back gently as he walked. He found himself picking up Vex’s tune while doing so, searching a tired mind for a name or composer, and finding no answer, but recalling a music tutor, Julius and his mother on either side of a harpsichord, playing a shaky melody together. After about a minute of pacing, Elaina jolted in a quiet belch, and Percy rubbed her back soothingly. “That’s better. You ready to go back to bed, ‘Lainey?”

She, being four months old, didn’t answer, but folded up against his chest, blinking sleepily, as he went over and left the towel somewhere they’d easily find in the morning. On the bed, his wife, already back under the covers, smiled knowingly at him, and with her hair mussed and yanked on, bags under her eyes from having to wake up every two-to-three hours each night, if they were lucky, she looked so beautiful that there wasn't a poet or artist in the world who could do the sight of her, spilled across the bedsheets, loose-limbed, an inch of justice.

“Darling,” she said, “I think you can put her to bed now.”

Percy genuinely didn’t intend to, but he automatically held Elaina closer. She made a small, fussy sound at the motion, and he repositioned, cradling her more steadily. “Vex,” he began to plead, pouting and giving her his most injured expression. By now, he'd gardened an earned reputation for being reluctant to put their child down for any reason, and had already suffered several scoldings that she wouldn't have an opportunity to practice her crawling if he kept picking her up at every opportunity.

Vex's seriousness broke with a small laugh. _“Fine_ , bring her here,” she breathed, though he knew by now she didn’t mind, with how quickly she relented every time he did it, “but we can’t do it every night, alright? Otherwise, we’ll never be able to put her down for a nap without tears.”

Triumphant, he came to bed, pulling back the covers at the same time Vex moved one of her pillows out between them, lengthwise, sitting up to take Elaina and lay her on it, on her back, and their daughter immediately became enthralled, as she always did, with her mother’s loose hair, grasping at the curtain of dark tresses falling near her and pulling at the strands. “Not so hard, little one,” she said, without a hint of reprimand, lying down beside the pillow and waiting for her to get bored with it.

Once Elaina remembered her father’s existence, she turned over on her stomach to paw over his face, babbling quietly, having just mastered the ability to do that. They were told that she would not be able to turn herself over until five months at least, but as soon as she learned how to support her own head, she took to crawling and moving with precocious enthusiasm, to both their utter relief, and overwhelming anxiety, as she seemed determined to throw herself off of any unguarded edge unless caught in the act.

“Hello, pup,” Percy greeted, closing his eyes so that she wouldn’t prod at them, while she ran her little hands across what parts of his face she could reach. This turned very quickly from adorable to extremely painful once she took hold of a handful of the beard over his upper lip and gave a hard yank. “Ow! Ow, ow, Elaina, no.”

Vex, just as sleep deprived as he was, if not more, thought it was the funniest thing she’d seen in days, trying to keep her laughter stifled to avoid getting their daughter more excited. She untangled Elaina’s fingers from his beard and pulled her into her arms, keeping her hands far from hair-yanking proximity. “Oh, sweet pea, leave your papa be, he spends so much time grooming that thing, it’d be a shame to tear it out.”

Percival sniffed, and rubbed his upper lip. The beard was probably an unwary choice, considering Vex herself had been smart enough to take off any jewelry other than her wedding band two weeks ago, but being a father to an energetic baby was a full time job, and shaving became one of those luxuries that he did not have time for. He said, “Vex, I love our daughter more than life itself, but if the hair-pulling phase doesn’t stop soon, we’re both going to have bald spots before she takes her first step.”

“She’s certainly her uncle’s niece, the little troublemaker. You,” Vex paused to turn over onto her back and lifted Elaina up to pepper kisses all over her face, “are very lucky that you’re the cutest thing alive.” Then she brought the infant down to rest on her chest, laying her head beneath her collarbone. At this age, few things relaxed her as quickly as being close to her mother’s heartbeat again. Percy could understand it, though for different reasons. If they were lucky, their daughter will spend her whole life not having to understand why he still lays in bed awake sometimes and, trying not wake her up, smooths his hand down Vex’s back as she slept, just to feel her breathing, just to briefly check her pulse. He had more than his fair share of nights of being unable to sleep with the only comfort being his wife’s heartbeat, knowing that all that mattered was that it kept going, and everything else being secondary, all problems solved in time, given the first.

And now he had two things in his bed whose survival took top priority over everything else. Well, he thought, reaching down to scratch behind Trinket’s ears, the bear now weighing down half the bed, three things to keep safe. He took a few minutes to consider how lucky he was, to have so many things to fret over. Every now and then, he imagined speaking to a younger version of himself, half dead at the bottom of a prison cell under Stillben, telling him about all of this fortune he had now, and he couldn’t see himself ever believing his own story, coming from misery and poorly-made deals to happily married to the love of his life, with a bear step-son and a healthy firstborn.

The sound of a short, contained sniff drew Percy out of his thoughts, one he knew to be Vex swallowing tears, and when he shifted nearer to put an arm around her, he was close enough to see the faint, wet shimmer in her eye as she scrubbed the other viciously with the palm of her hand. “Dearest?” He said, keeping his voice low to not wake Elaina up again.

“I’m fine, darling,” she whispered, a little choked off. “Gross maternal hormones, you know.”

Most nights, Vex kept her glowing to a minimum, since she frightened Elaina with it when she was barely a few weeks old. Seeing it extinguished broke more than a few hearts around the castle, himself included, knowing that she only did it these days when she was too giddy to be aware of it. Lately, she’d been introducing it gradually, letting it slip in as a slight shine late at the small hours, in moments like these, the faint light coming off her skin making her watering eyes even more apparent.

“It’s just,” she said, “I still can’t believe we get to have this.”

Percy moved closer, shifting the pillow between them aside to rest his body against hers, smoothing the few tears escaping down her cheek away, then kissing her deeply, attempting to communicate without words how much he felt the same way. When he pulled away, he was more than a little teary-eyed himself. He said, “Great, now we’re both doing it.”

“Out of everyone in this bed right now, Trinket is the only one not a huge baby.”

Trinket grunted in agreement, walking to the other side of the mattress so that he could lay halfway on top with his head lying over Vex’s legs. She rubbed his muzzle with a free hand, lying back and closing her eyes.

Being altogether at night helped them both, whether they admitted it or not. Vex enjoyed it for the same reasons she would gladly let a Goliath barbarian and a bear hold her firstborn, but would not let most royals and dignitaries as much as look at her before passing numerous tests of reliability. Nearly every night of the pregnancy contained some measure of nightmares where she took the place of her mother in her own memories, watching a well-dressed stranger come in a carriage to her ramshackle cottage, arriving to take away her children, screaming and crying, to a place they’ll hate and be hated by, where she’ll never be able to see them again. If they stayed close, all four of them, when she woke up with the remnants of a nightmare in her mind, she could rest easy, knowing that no-one could take them away from her without a fight.

For Percy, it helped in much the same way always sleeping in the side of the bed closest to the door helped. Late at night, he still found himself expecting armed intruders to break it down; believing that one day, that they’ll be stormed and invaded again, and being able to place himself between his wife and daughter and the entryway was one of the few things that let him sleep calmly, without waking up in a panic, where he could shield them with his body in case a need for it would arise.

Later, they’ll learn how to sleep apart without worrying, as all parents and children must. But for now, they stayed close, and rested easy in each other’s proximity, and, having survived too many atrocities in their lifetimes, let themselves forget how terrible the world could be. For the moment, at least, the monsters were far and the devils behind them, and every evil of the world so impossibly distant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much to say this time, i don't know when i can update again, but i hope soon, and, like last time, i'm always open to ideas. for now, i hope you enjoyed what i had to offer, and happy rosh hashanah.


	4. a little kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the business of firearms is brought up, to percy's displeasure, and he attempts to teach vex how to shoot a gun without having another crisis, withstanding several terrible plays on words in the process. prompted by absolace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all i wanted to do was write a thing about percy teaching vex how to shoot a gun with some fun innuendos, but instead we ended up with this, and if i had to suffer through it, so do you. this has been very graciously prompted by absolace, sorry that it took a long time for me to finish something. last week, i borrowed from cinderfell, this chapter, i will confess to stealing the idea of animus' side effects from much of alienfirst's wonderful artwork, though i don't know if this is exactly the same. you've probably already seen it, but in case you haven't, please do, it is breathtakingly good. this chapter is a little closer to the first in tone, and is yet another departure from whatever my style is, and i will absolutely regret posting it in the morning. regardless, i hope you enjoy it, and thank you for reading.

Percy had been spending his evenings in the workshop more and more often, lately, staring at Animus as it sat menacingly on his workbench, wondering the scope of his mistakes, and just how far he was allowing them to spread.

One of the guards had found a man, outside of the city’s walls, trying to peddle a pistol off on some mercenaries. He was a refugee of Emon, settled in Whitestone while the city rebuilt, and Percy didn't blame him for this, some of Emon's residents were becoming desperate-- despite its open doors, the capitol was already becoming secondary to the North, which was enjoying an economic boost with the fall of the Chroma Conclave, having been spared by the most of the destruction. Having been liberated for almost a year now from Briarwood tyranny, Whitestone’s crops grew in healthy, and yielded substantial profits to a country ridden with food shortage. What was a starved, shrouded city not a year before suddenly seemed the refuge of Tal'Dorei, and rapidly changing for it. Children conceived under occupation were being born to a city in bloom.

One of the city guards had been the one to arrest the thief and confiscate his wares, and the man now sat in a jail cell within the city proper, awaiting trial. Had Percy been the one to find him, there would have been nothing left to bring to court.

It was a gun of Ripley’s stock, stolen off of one of the hapless volunteers he’d hoped would’ve proven finer fighters than to have left their weaponry unguarded. A better, more productive man would’ve been upstairs by now, marching himself to the training ground to whip some trainees into shape, but he was not that man. He was Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III, inventor of the firearm, and that meant that he was entitled to sit by himself, and consider the scope of his mistakes in private.

Furthermore, that meant exploring the truth of it: firearms have, by now, been in his own hands, the hands of strangers, and his worst enemies, and he had yet to teach the one he trusts most how to use one, herself.

He knew, without needing to check, that Vex’ahlia was home at this hour. She ran her patrols twice a day if there was no concern of monstrosities, at dawn and at dusk, forcing him into a somewhat human sleeping pattern if he wanted to be awake to kiss her good morning before she left. If the early darkness coming in through the little window at the very top of the basement workshop wasn’t a trick of the light, she should be back home at this hour. Likely, she’d be trying to finish up work in the library, despite having a perfectly comfortable drafting table upstairs in the study. He felt the by-now familiar urge to abandon his work and go bury his face in his wife's long, dark hair, catch the scent of pine needle and winter still caught on her from her walk.

Instead, Percy looked again at Animus.

He supposed Animus would be the weapon that he’d have to offer her for practice. These days, he did not use Retort often, finding it insufficient compared to his other two and Diplomacy, and the kickback from Bad News could overwork the muscles she needed for archery, the delicate tendons of her hand necessary to hold a bow taut without strangling it. But Animus suffered no beginner’s mistake, and had left him plenty of times with shaking hands and eyes red with popped blood vessels after a sloppy performance, and that was its own dilemma.

Before, it felt fair that it would hurt him in return, in the same way that it felt right that the empty barrel on the List would represent the global damage caused by his creations. One more reminder of the people who would lie, riddled with holes, in some ditch, by his hand. But the barrel was not empty for long, soon filling with his sister's name, and the idea of Vex’s stable hand twitching like his own did after a difficult battle, the veins climbing up her wrist turned prominent and purple with Animus’ bite, was enough for him to want to add Animus to its predecessor at the bottom of a tub of acid, this time of his own volition.

And yet, there was a sphere, hanging menacingly beneath the castle, that said the worse had yet to come. Sometimes, when Vex was out on a hunt, he would go down late at night, and just to look at it, thinking of Delilah Briarwood’s hand drawing the life out of her, her body crumpled on the floor. Vex had rubbed shoulders with every demon he had, she deserved to have as much defense as she could possibly have against them. He would not deprive her of that again.

As suspected, he found her in the library, perched on a footstool and hunching over a low desk, one hand rubbing the back of her neck, and the other in front of her, quickly parsing through documents with a quill.

“Dear,” he called, stepping through the doorway, “you know you have a perfectly good writing desk upstairs, with a very supportive chair that won’t make your back ache.”

“I know, I know,” she said, moving her hand away from her neck and relaxing her shoulders to hide the tension there. Percy crossed the room, and came to stand behind her, replacing her hand with his own, pressing his thumbs into line of her backbone, between her shoulderblades. “But the floor is warmer here, and Trinket likes the library better.  _ Mm, _ a little to the right? Right there.”

He worked at the tense joints of her neck and back until the knots loosened and relaxed, then skated his fingers across her back, unabashedly admiring the sculpted plane of muscles made by years of pulling a bow taught and holding it stable. When he was young, Percy never saw himself as much attracted to anyone’s body, much less find himself weak at the knees whenever Vex stretched her arms over her head, but there is a lot to be said about marrying an archer.

She tipped her head back to look at him, her dark eyes half-lidded, glancing over his face with a low, soothed fire. They’d only been married for two weeks at the time, and it seemed that nearly every other interaction lead to them falling into bed together, testing at the heat of a pleasant secret between them. “Enjoying yourself?” She asked.

“Very. It’s very difficult to resist you, my heart.”

“I noticed.” She lifted her chin, and he lowered his face to hers, kissing her softly. When he pulled away, her eyes were closed contently, and she said, ”I do make it difficult for you, don’t I? I apologize, Percy, I really don’t intend to make it so--”

“Vex,  _ don’t--” _

“ _ Hard-on  _ you.”

He groaned, and leaned forward wrap his arms around her from behind, crossing his wrists over her chest, and she reached up to rest her hands over his elbows, leaning back so that she rested her back against his front. “Not yet, at least. I’m not quite that easy to excite, dearest.”

“Could have fooled me, my darling," she said, sliding fingers down to interlock with his.

They waited for a moment, knowing that something hun above them, waiting to be mentioned, but not pressuring it in any direction. He took a minute or two just to hold her close, brushing the back of her fingers with his thumb as he waited for the topic to come up on its own. He could stand to never discuss it, to stay like this for as long as he could, savor as much joy as he could before dangers inevitably came back to scratch at their doorstep.

Eventually, Percy relented, saying, “I’ve been giving what we were talking about the other day a lot of thought.”

“I figured that was what you were doing in the workshop so often,” she answered, no pressure in her tone, “have you reached a conclusion?”

Biting down his hesitation, he said, “We should do it.”

* * *

Morning found them in the Riflemen’s ( _ “Musketeers’,”  _ Percy corrected under his breath, just to watch Vex giggle behind her hand, clearing her throat to disguise it in front of the guards) training ground, much too early for Percy’s taste. They had to come soon after dawn, so that they wouldn’t get tangled in the feet of the Riflemen, or, more likely, spook Kynan enough that he would cancel the session altogether, preferably while skittering away and avoiding eye contact.

It wasn’t that Percy enjoyed tormenting Kynan, he knew firsthand how terrible Ripley was for young chargers-- but the man did have a hand in killing him, and nearly killed Keyleth, so he felt some satisfaction in watching him fidget.

Vex didn’t need much help in loading the pistol, having seen him do it a thousand times by now. She’d been an immeasurable help in the workshop before, at numerous points providing steadier hands than he had, so it was no surprise that the mechanics of the firearm came to her very naturally by now. However, when she took aim, finger still far from the trigger, he had to come up to correct her stance, and there lay the rub.

Quite literally, because as soon as he came to stand directly behind her, one hand safely on her waist and respectfully on her wrist to correct her grip, she pressed her back to his front, and rolled her hips back to grind against his. “ _ Vex,”  _ he said, choked, “maybe we shouldn’t be doing this while holding a live firearm?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, darling,” she purred, batting her eyelashes at him and pushing closer again, “would I ever do anything untoward in such a serious situation?”

“You are  _ insatiable.” _

“I’m newly married to a gorgeous, brilliant man, who I am not allowed to sneak away to somewhere warm and remote to properly ravish. Let me have what I can get.”

Before she could make him flush any further, he adjusted her hand, and motioned for her to shoot.

For a first attempt, it wasn’t a bad shot, she did clip the target, but the release proved a spot of trouble, as her hand faltered, nearly dropping the grip on the pistol, and she gave a startled half-leap back, ears twitching back like a spooked horse. “Shit! Sorry, sorry,” she apologized, fumbling to keep her grip on the gun without touching the trigger. “That was louder than I expected.”

“Perfectly fine, and very good for a first attempt. Turn the barrel clockwise, and we’ll try again?”

She nodded, straightened her stance. “Yes, of course. Again.”

The next shot was better, though he did keep his hand over hers to lessen the blow of the recoil, and her flinch was much less perceptible on the second attempt. By the third, he was close enough to feel the muscles of her back loosening and shrugging off the worst of the blow, like he'd seen her toss away the backlash of an untensed bow, and her grip becoming more stable and intent.

By the fourth, however, it seemed they’d played with luck too much, as the burning black powder huffed and exploded messily, misfiring in a loud, rattling cough, like a person choking. This wouldn’t be much of a problem if they were shooting with one of the confiscated, cheaply-made guns, or with Bad News, but this was Animus, and there was no disguising the half step she took, away from him, the muscles of her forearm locking up in pain.

Percy tried not to panic, tried to keep his voice calm and measured, but he could hear the breathlessness in his own voice when he reached to take the pistol away from her, asking, “Dear? Are you hurt?”

Practically, he knew that Animus’ bite wasn’t especially painful, not at first. It stung, and was often followed by a brief flash of bewilderment, which, judging by Vex faintly tossing her head, she was pushing through, but it didn’t often cause severe damage, not short term. But he had spent many sleepless nights before, praying to  _ something  _ that Ripley only hurt him and spared Vox Machina, spared Vex, and this felt far too much like the things that have kept him awake at night.

Percy called her name again, and she nodded, her eyes shut, but when she opened them, there was a spot of popped blood vessels pooling at the corner of her eye, and he tugged her aside, to sit down at a bench nearby, and tried not to hover.

“I’m alright, darling, it was just a twinge.”

“I know, I know, just… entertain me for a moment?”

Vex sighed and let him have her hand. Holding it in both of his as he kneeled, he unfolded her clenched fist, noting the involuntary tension in her fingers, the faint trembling in the thumb, and, most notably, the cluster of prominent veins gathering at the palm. Cupping her hand in one of his, he rubbed the tensed muscles with the other, watching as the twitching relaxed and reduced, until her hand was stable again, bringing it up to his face and pressing a small kiss to it as he finished.

Vex rolled her eyes, but her expression was fond. “What do you say, my husband?” She joked, “Will I live?”

“There’s no remedying it, I fear we’ll have to amputate the hand altogether.”

“I suppose it could be worse, though I’ll have to learn how to shoot with my feet. At least it’s only the right.”

“Only that,” he said, lifting her left hand and kissing it as well. She didn’t often wear her wedding band outside of their home, and this day was no exception, but it still felt meaningful to touch his lips to her ring finger.

She reached up and brushed his face, urging him to come sit by her, to lean together on the bench. They didn’t say anything, but Percy couldn’t help but flex his shooting hand, the marks on his own from recurring use of Animus hidden under his glove.

Ripley was under his skin already, he knew. She was in the marrow of his bones. There was no running from it, no untangling her influence on him, but there had to be limits, and he drew the line at letting a ghost hurt his family. And yet, with every day, it seemed that his mistakes leaked and tainted more of the world, until it was difficult to see what the solution was. Day by day, the portion of his mind, the unfilled barrell, dedicated to calculating every casualty that would come of his creations became more cluttered with imaginary numbers and faces, until he felt as though he felt unstable with them, slow and unable to get out of his own head, unsure of how to bear the weight of having invented a new way of killing, and introduced it to the world by way of his own torturer.

Vex drew his hand away from his face when he rubbed at it too punishingly, and tugged off his glove to cup his bare hand in her own, her own archery gloves long removed. She didn’t say anything as she did it, but it meant something, to have his ragged hand tucked in her own callused one, the faint notch at her middle knuckle where her ring should be. It was grounding.

Eventually, she said, “Forgiveness, darling. Remember?”

“The only way to really grow,” he quoted, smiling despite his dour mood, at the memory of the first time he kissed her, her lips slightly chilled against his own, her eyes warm when he pulled away. “I remember. I don’t know if I can forgive Ripley, Vex.”

She snorted. “You shouldn't. I haven't. If there’s any justice in the world, she’s stuck between Orthax’s teeth as we speak. Forgive  _ yourself _ , Percival. You’re more than due a little kindness, I should think.”

 

“Which you more than provide,” he sighed, rubbed his temples with the hand not in hers. “I don’t think I can forgive myself, either. Not yet.”

She squeezed his hand, something fierce in her grip. “Well, you’re going to have to try, for now. We made vows to keep each other safe, and that means from ourselves, too. Show yourself a little mercy, Percy. Be merciful, Percival.”

“You are  _ terrible _ ,” he said, snickering into his hand, “and you’re a hypocrite to boot.”

“I guess we both have things to work on, then.”

“I guess we do.”

She brushed his thumb with her own, and he threaded their fingers together. “We’ll take care of it, my treasure. I promise. Between the two of us mastermind sharpshooters, how difficult could firearm management be?”

“We’ll take care of it,” Percy agreed, nodding to himself, and then, with more confidence, “we’ll take care of it.”

* * *

When Percy got back down to his workshop the next day, he left Animus in a drawer by his work table. He didn’t need to look at it right then, he had bigger things in mind.

It’d occurred to him after they’d returned from training with Bad News earlier that day: Vex didn’t need a long ranged weapon-- she already had one. He’d been going about this the wrong way, entirely. Switching to a pistol would only encumber her, if she could continue using Fenthras. What she needed was something short range, something that could knock a charging opponent back in range for her longbow.

She’d need something more concussive than Retort or the List-- more like grapeshot than cannonball. Maybe he could modify a rifle to be shorter, to be more powerful, like a form of Bad News that could be fired with one hand. The accuracy and range would suffer for the shorter barrel, but, at close range, accuracy and range didn’t mean much anyway. It wouldn’t be easy to design, but for Vex? For Vex, he could certainly try.

And so, on a late afternoon, Percy dipped a quill into ink and rapidly began to design something that would be good enough for the love of his life. Something that would be worthy of being wielded by her, something to keep her safe. A weapon, not for for vengeance, or for inhuman curiosity, but, much in the same way as Bad News, for the protection of a loved one.

On that night, Percival de Rolo the III began to design the first firearm in Exandria created without the aid of a demon. And it wasn’t enough to make him less guilty, less culpable, but it was better this way. It was good. It was new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is probably full of typos i'll find when i wake up, and i know laura bailey said handgun, but give vex a sawed-off shotgun 2k17.


	5. put down roots where none would grow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the seasons change, from fall to winter, and the hunters come home to nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this to distract myself from tonight. i will be completely honest, i am beyond terrified, to the point where i have been close to having panic attacks over this show, and i'm expecting the worst. i love these two a lot, and they brought me a lot of joy, and i'll always be happy that i got to watch them come together (but literally and euphemistically), and had this show in my life for over a full year, since i started to watch during the tail end of the feywild arc. thank you, critical role. no matter what happens tonight, we'll always have this. enjoy.

When Vex came back from the dawn patrol, as she does every morning, she made sure to take the least creaky path up the stairs to their bedroom, knowing better than to expect her husband to be awake less than an hour after sunrise. She opened the doorway carefully, shifting it gingerly to keep from making him jolt under the covers, and crossed the room to sit on the edge of the mattress.

Without her beside him, he had rolled to the center of the bed and cocooned himself tightly in the covers, eyes squeezed shut and what portion of his face visible between the blankets marked with lines from the pillow. As soon as the bed dipped down from her weight, he began to wake up somewhat, and Vex watched him with a smile, untying the laces of her bracers and putting them away, gradually making her way through the unused armor. By the time she got to the chest plate, stretching to reach for the ties at her back, his eyes were fluttering open, and he looked at the dim light of the room for a moment and groaned quietly, burrowing further into the covers.

Leaving the laces, she laughed, and untucked the blankets to see Percy’s face at least partially. “Good morning, grumpy.”

He rolled onto his back, giving up on hiding from the daylight encroaching on his sleep, and rubbed at his eyes. He said, “How was your walk?”

“Peaceful. A farmer reported a few stray wolves around town, but the tracks showed they’re keeping a distance, so we shouldn’t need to intervene.”

Percy lifted his head, asking, “What wolves? Dire wolves?”

“No, darling. Regular wolves. Those do exist every now and then.”

“One would think they would be exceedingly rare considering their competition.”

“One certainly would think.”

When she returned to struggling with her breastplate, he scooted closer and took over, quickly undoing the ties and letting her take off and put away her dragonscale. She unbuckled her boots and left them resting against a bedpost, pulling back the covers and lying down. Fall was beginning to give way to winter, and at dawn, the city had been coated in a fine, white layer of frost, leaving her hands at a perfect temperature to wrap tight around her sleep-warm spouse and run up under his shirt, making him yelp and elbow her arms away. She just burrowed closer to him, wrapping her arms even tighter around him and pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“You’re  _ freezing!”  _ He hissed, squirming in place.

“And you’ve been under the covers all morning. Share a little body heat with your wife.”

He sighed, and let her hold him, but stopping her hand when it passed his navel, and played with the loose waistline of his sleep pants. “Because you’ve gone out into the cold in defense of our city, I’ll allow you this much,” Percy said, nodding at her spooning him, “but I think we’d both be rather disappointed if we had to deal with frostbite below the belt.”

Vex kissed the back of his neck, and shifted her hands up to safer waters, running over the plain of his stomach, knotted with aging scars, up to the dusting of hair over muscle at his chest, then back down, groping at as much skin as she could reach, both for warmth and for the familiarity of his many textures and patterns, by now as comforting and grounding as the map of the stars in the sky. After the memory of finding him half-starved at the floor of a jail cell, the very subtle softness over his frame having gradually been added since their semi-permanent retirement from adventuring was strangely satisfying. It was proof enough that he was finally taking the time to eat and rest regularly, enough that he didn’t look so rail thin anymore.

Percy settled back into the pillow, getting comfortable. There was a time in the late fall to early winter where, after the annual harvest and holidays, where there was very little business at all. Winter was harsh and demanded attention, but, for now, there was only a meeting every few days, and that meant they got to spend stretches of whole days in their mansion, just getting paperwork and projects done, with the occasional hunt to break the monotony.  In any other situation, you’d think they’d get cabin fever by now, but domesticity treated them well. After a year of marriage, they never seemed to reach a point where they no longer had things to talk about, or ever had a shortage of trouble to get into together.

He turned over in her arms, moving her hands out of his shirt, so that they lay facing each other, foreheads touching. “Good morning, Lady de Rolo,” he said, smiling sweetly. She could tell by the softness in his gaze that he’d been overcome with the rush of affection towards her, having remembered that they were married again. She knew it, because she felt the same thing, any number of times in a day.

She pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose. That prominent, unmistakable nose—Vex’ahlia never thought that she’d be stupidly giddy at the proud line of a man’s nose, or the furrow formed between his eyebrows when deep in thought, the way he chewed at the edge of his thumb sometimes, with sketching out a new idea—but, having put down roots where none would grow, having never thought the option would be available to someone like her, life has lead her in many interesting avenues.

A low, pleasant warmth pooled in her chest and stomach, like that brought on by the sweet, warm drinks served after dinner at the castle, when they wanted to spoil their guests in preparation for negotiations. She answered, “Good morning, Lord de Rolo,” and touched their lips together.

* * *

 

Percy hated nights like these.

On good nights, during the dog days of summer, they rarely had need for Whitestone’s Grandmisstress to go hunting more than once a month, or fewer. But, in the worst of Whitestone’s winter, reports of nighttime monstrosities could number as many as two or three substantiated account in a week, and that demanded more patrols, more hunters, and, in cases where the reports turned out to be more than a few opportunistic timber wolves, more long nights where Vex and Trinket had to go out into the snow, coming back, more often than not, sometime in the morning, lugging a hand, or a claw, or a length of scales.

On nights like these, storming and cold, hunts could take several nights, since tracking was near impossible, footprints covered by fresh snowfall, and fog obscuring most of the woods. They’d set out last night, when the snowstorm was still small, and looked to be waning, after an unidentified quadruped. This was far from the first time the Grey Hunt lasted over one night, but when the storm worsened, and continued throughout the day, Cass and Percy agreed that, if the hunters did not return by morning, they’ll follow in with a few volunteers from the Pale Guard and the Riflemen. For now, he’d stay at home, and wait.

So Percy waited.

He wanted to be awake when she got home, as he more than often was, but he’d spent the better part of the day before locked at home, watching the storm with poorly hidden tension. Without Vex or Trinket in the house, the mansion looked suddenly uninviting and hostile, every hall reminding him exactly what purpose this building served before it’s demolishing, and who it was built for. Sometimes, he swore the walls still smelled like smoke, and that he could hear the crackling of a fire, despite the stone flooring of the house remaining as cold as the snow outside.

He woke up to the sound of the front door lock shifting in place, and barely had enough time to sit up by the time it opened heavily to the whine of the wind outside. Stepping through the threshold with footsteps heavy with sodden boots, came his wife, blurry but recognizable without his glasses, followed by their bear son, himself soaked to the bone.

“Dear?” Percy murmured, his voice barely audible even to himself over the sound of wind and sleet. Vex shut the door behind her heavily, locking it, before turning to face him with a smile. He fumbled and returned his glasses to his face, to look at see her more clearly.

Her armor was splashed with gore, but mostly that had been smeared down with the rain and snow. Her dark hair had long been pulled out of its braid, and was now smothered with water, plastered to her face. Her eyes, though soft and warm were ragged with exhaustion, and he could tell just by the way she moved that her muscles were sore from stalking and fighting. There was one visible gash across her forehead, bleeding into one eye, that was squinted shut, but still open enough to see through, and she held one hand close to her side, bracing an injury near her ribcage.

“Hello, darling,” she said, bending down to unbuckle her boots and push them to rest near the doorway, then, wiping her hands clean, walked over to where he lay spilled across the couch. Once she was within reach, he touched a hand to the side of her face, smoothing away some blood from the corner of her eye. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it tight. “Did you fall asleep waiting for me?”

“The storm wasn’t lightening up,” he said, “I wanted to make sure you came back. We were going to join you in the,” he yawned, “in the morning.”

Vex pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Her lips were ice cold, and he broke momentarily out of his bleariness to make a worried sound at her. “Vex’ahlia, you’re  _ freezing.” _

“Warm me up, then,” she said, and kissed him.

Not in the fun way, as it turned out, rather in the very literal way. Her first bath was in lukewarm water, to keep from causing a shock to her system from the heat pored over cold skin, so she rinsed off the blood and muck while Percy set up a few logs to burn in the fireplace for Trinket to nap before, then replaced the bath with one of near boiling water. When he took the opportunity to examine the worse of her injuries, she tugged at his shirt, indicating that she wanted him to join her,

Well, he never could deny her anything.

As soon as he sat down, she wrapped her arms around him and pushed her face into the groove formed where his shoulder met his throat, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Muffled, she said, “I missed you.”

Percy said, “I missed you, too, my heart. The storm kept getting worse, and--”

“I know, I know. We’re fine now.”

He tipped her head up and kissed her, deeply, not minding the faint metallic taste of her cut lip. Then he carefully turned her around in his arms, so she could rest her head on his shoulder while he helped her wash. He ran a bar of soap over her legs, her thighs, up her torso and chest, then down her back, massaging sore muscles loose as he rinsed it off. “Your hair?” He asked, and felt her nod sleepily.

After her scalp rinsed clean of blood and leaves, he replaced the water one final time, leaving the room to pad into the kitchen in a robe, and come back with two glasses of something warming and sweet, finding his wife half-asleep in the bath by the time he returned to pull her back into his arms. “How was the hunt?” He asked.

She hummed, and sipped from her glass. “Long, and exhausting. We nearly lost two hunters, but we got it down in the end. The trophy is at the castle, most of the Hunt has gone home by now, I’m not the only one with a very sweet husband waiting for me at home.”

Percy moved her hair aside to kiss her shoulder, holding her close, melting into the familiar, irreplicable pleasure of feeling nothing but smooth, warm skin against his own. He felt as though they were, for the moment, without seam or end, breathing in unison. He rested his forehead on her upper back, and stayed there, pleasantly overheated.

There was a topic at the edge of his lip, about how cold and empty the house was without her-- and more experimentally, how many unused rooms this mansion had, having been built to house families and guests. How many rooms he walked across while waiting for her, and thought, in some idle, dreamy way, about the construction of cribs, and then little beds and toys. There were plans of expanding, somewhere in his mind. If she said no, he wouldn’t bring it up again.

But, looking over her shoulder at her relaxed, contented expression, eyes closed and hands resting over his forearms, where they were wrapped around her midsection, he had a feeling that she wouldn’t say no.

He was about to say something when Vex stretched her arms, then turned in his arms to press closer to him, pushing him to the lip of the tub, and kissing him thoroughly, touching his jawline to urge him to open his mouth, running her tongue against his when he did. She pulled aside with a wet sound and aimed downwards, sucking at the spot of his throat where his pulse thrummed loudly, tracing his jugular downwards to his chest, to mouth at a nipple. He looked down at her, helplessly, and her eyes were dark and predatory, a sharp toothed smile held close to where his heart beat, looking ready to devour it. She whispered, “I want you,” against his skin.

She could have him, if she wanted, he would let her have whatever part of him she asked for. He’s put his heart in her hands a long time ago, and watched her proceed to take better care of it than he ever has. Whatever she wanted of him was already hers.

Percy wanted to say anything, gather his thoughts enough to tell her that he was hers, that he would cut the sun from the sky, if she asked him after it. In the lowlight, the faint glow of her skin looked ethereal, and he couldn’t think past the liquid warm gathered in his chest and pooling downwards. “I love you,” he found himself saying, his voice trembling.

She laughed, and kissed his sternum sweetly. “I love you too,” she switched into Draconic briefly to purr something he recognized, but was too lost in the heat of the moment to translate, “now let a huntress enjoy her catch.”

Percy, knowing better than to resist a command, listened to the whine of the biting wind outside, and lost himself in the overtaking warmth of her eyes, the heat of her mouth, as she took him apart and gathered him close.

He loved nights like these.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll see you all on the other side of the war.
> 
> edit: well, fuck me running. we made it.


	6. the simple act of swaying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ladyofrosefire sent me a very lovely ask (like three days ago because if i do anything promptly at this point in my life i'll probably burst into flames where i stand) about percy and vex dancing and it was so lovely and sweet (and you should go look at it because she's great) that i ended up writing this short thing in an enchanted haze. i'm too tired to edit this properly, so if there are any typos. yeah.
> 
> anyway, here's dancing.

“You know,” Percy says, his tone meandering– bordering on wistful, even, “I think I would’ve asked you to dance, that time in Westruun.”

Rather than doing what he’d hoped and be make playfully nostalgic by his reminder of a time bygone, Vex throws back her head and laughs loudly, as though they weren’t under the gaze of scores of attendees, all keeping a close eye on them, circling their way across the ballroom floor. “I knew you were looking at me, then!”

He shoots a glance at a couple staring at them a little too openly as they sway past, though he himself can’t determine if he’s going for apologetic or admonishing. “I’m sure you’re elated to be right, dear,” he says, keeping his voice at a low murmur as she rounds up her peal of laughter and returns her head to rest on his shoulder, “but Cass has already scolded us once tonight for disturbing the peace, and I’m frankly more than a little terrified of what she’s going to do to us next.”

“Let them gawk,” she says, her tone just a little too loud to be private conversation. “They’re only staring because we’re the best looking couple here. And because we’re making them look at their spouses for more than the requisite minute or two per day.”

Percy looks over her shoulder at the two that he’d already reproached, who had now turned to look at each other, a little red in the face, then down at their feet, abashed. When he turns back, Vex is looking at him, her smile gentled into a soft expression, and he trips over his feet for a moment. For all the dancing lessons he’d been made to go through, for all the balls he’s taken part in, for all the times they’ve danced before, none of it is much help when it comes to keeping from buckling over, every time.

“You were going to ask me to dance,” she says, finally lowering her voice to an intimate volume. Percy tries his best to contain a shiver when he feels her breath against his throat.

“You,” he says, stopping them altogether when he hears the band finish their song and begin to prepare for the next, “are three sheets to the wind.”

She laughs, quietly, then guides him in a circle to the next song’s tempo. Neither of them can ever quite determine who’s leading or following in any particular dance, though it’s never made them any worse off for it. “All the more reason to continue this somewhere more private.”

He asks, “Are people still watching?”

For a change, she looks over his shoulder, then delivers the answer directly into his ear, “We ought to be charging admission.”

He doesn’t blame them. She looks beautiful tonight. She does every night, but she’s chosen a dress in a deep, blue color (Whitestone blue, he knows, the very specific shade found on the de Rolo crest) which makes her hair seem almost jet black in the light. Privately, he remembers helping her let her hair down for bed, his fingers getting lost in the inkspill of it as he loosely combed out the knots. He thinks of their wedding night, by extension, of swaying like this in the privacy of their own home, her hands coming up from their place on his shoulders to cup his face, bring his forehead down to hers.

This time, he knows better than to try and contain the full-body shudder. He’s far from a paragon of sobriety tonight, and a pleasant surge of heat in his veins when he looks at her, her dark eyes soft, makes the decision for him.

“They won’t notice us leaving through the garden,” he says. Then, a little louder, “I could use some air.”

She runs her down the length of his arm to where it’s holding at her waist, and hooks her fingers through his. “The night is perfect for a short stroll, isn’t it, darling?”

The heels of her shoes aren’t right for walking through the castle garden, much less the forest edge of the path leading to their house, and, for that matter, neither do his. At some point after they make it past the hedges and spinose teeth, they both end up taking them off. The moon is bright enough to light their path most of the way, but whenever the walk under heavy canopy, or a cloud obscures it, she tightens her grip on his hand, her other hand holding her dress up so that it doesn’t drag in the underbrush.

It began, like most things in their relationship, as a dare. This was during the first few weeks of their yearlong break, right after Vax and Keyleth headed back to Zephrah, and Pike and Grog to Westruun. It’d been in a discussion with Taryon about balls, of the non-anatomical sort, when Percy mentioned that he never had the chance to show off the fruits of his labor in years of ballroom lessons as nobility.

Vex refused to believe him until he offered her proof.

When they reach home again, they’re too tired from a night of playing nice, well-mannered royals to push the furniture to the corners of the room like they’d done the first time, back when they just had the cramped walls of Percy’s room in the castle to work with. They have more room now, whenever they want the proximity of it just to themselves, but also more things to clear out of the way beforehand.

As Percy finishes nudging the barest minimum of furniture they need to move to have a clear path from the sitting room to the library, Vex finishes wriggling out of her dress, down to the white shift underneath, and drapes it over the back of a couch with a contented sigh. “I do miss Tary, you know. But there is a benefit to having the house to ourselves.”

“I know,” he says, shedding layers of coat and tassel and tossing them over the couch as well.

By the time they settle back into waltzing stances at the middle of the room, they’re both half-dressed and half in their undergarments– nights in Whitestone around Highsummer tend to me as hot as they are clammy, and the bared skin is a welcome relief from it.

It’s almost uncannily close to their wedding night, as they dance, not inelegant, yet neither with any particular urge to impress, nor for serving any purpose other than the simple act of swaying together. They’d been in similar states of partial undress then, too, cravats thrown off and kohl smeared, sloshed enough that they’d taken long moments to sober up, and happier than they had any right to be.

It’s become something of a habit of theirs, dancing without music in the corners of their house, unobserved. After they moved in, when they got married, after they came back from the Plane of Pandemonium, frayed out in a hundred ways. Who would think, a year and a half ago, that they’d not only been married, but together long enough to develop mutual tradition? Two years ago, would he have thought of having a home of their own in the ashes of his city’s usurpers?

Would he have thought himself, some four years ago, at the bottom of a Stillben, capable of dancing with his wife, for no particular reason other than the fact, in a short life, any opportunity to dance with the one you love should never be wasted?

There are nights, like these, where Percy feels as though they’ve stolen happiness through the teeth of something larger than they are, and that they could only hope that if they were quiet enough with it, if they hid whatever ill-gotten contentment between their palms and inside their mouths and pressed up in the back of their ribs, they could even get away with keeping it. They must have earned their handfuls of peace by now, he thinks, they ought to be allowed to hold it.

Then Vex laughs, cupping his jawline as she has countless times before, and lifts herself enough to kiss him.

“You’re thinking too hard about this,” she says as she lowers back down to the balls of her feet, “I can hear the gears in your head creaking and straining from here.”

“I’ll try to think less loud thoughts, dearest.”

“Do,” she says, then guides him into a spin he’s much too tall for. His lower back complains from being made too stoop over after an evening of discomfort, but he’s laughing at the end of it, almost too much to comfortably press his lips to hers again.

It’s some time after, when they’ve slowed down to a much more placid rhythm, Vex says, “I would’ve said yes, you know.”

“Pardon?” He asks, making no attempt to disguise how much he’s begun to nod off on her shoulder.

“In Westruun, darling. I would’ve said yes.”

It his turn to laugh at the thought, muffling the sound against her throat. “As if I would’ve ever actually had the nerve to ask, even if Keyleth hadn’t needed a hand.”

One of her hands is resting at the back of his neck, and she lifts it to tangle in his hair, scratching pleasantly at his nape. She says, lightly, “You should’ve. You’re a very good dancer, after all.”

Percy snorts. “And you didn’t believe me.”

Vex rolls her eyes. “Alright,” she concedes, “I shouldn’t have doubted you, or your fancy footing.” She cuts herself with a yawn he feels more than sees.

He pulls back somewhat to look at her, and she’s looking at him with her eyes darker and softer than night itself. “We should retire for the night,” he says, “we’ll need to be up bright and early if we want to be prepared for Cass’s inevitable scolding.”

“Mmm,” she hums, “one more dance, then we’ll head to bed.”

“Alright, one more.”

“I could stand to do this for a long time,” she says, closing her eyes and lowering her head to prop it against his chest as if too heavy to hold upright. Knowing she isn’t talking about just to tonight, or necessarily about dancing, he just makes an affirming sound, and keeps on swaying from side to side, listing like a ship on water.

It’s nearer to dawn than dusk by the time they go to bed, three dances later, but without a band to keep time, or observers to comment on it, who’s keeping track?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fellas, i'm just a sleepy bitch who loves perc'ahlia.


End file.
